


Nollaig Shona Duit

by NerdyMind



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fawnlock, Gaelic Language, Ireland, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:31:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyMind/pseuds/NerdyMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Retired Captain John Watson moves to Ireland and encounters a most amazing young man.  Well, I say man...  Their first meeting and first Christmas together.<br/>____<br/>This is my Secret Santa Christmas gift for <a href="http://coffinholmes.tumblr.com/">coffinholmes</a>.  Will be posted in 4 parts over the next few days through Christmas. I consumed tons of fawnlock lore and headcanons, but then I decided to just do my own thing. So he's Irish now and I fudged 99% of the traditions and mythology mentioned. Translations are in the endnotes of each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erebones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,_  
>  earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;  
> snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,  
> in the bleak midwinter, long ago.

When Captain John Watson served his time with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, he counted himself lucky to meet PFC Nicholas McLarty. A friendly bloke from Ireland who filled the nights with colorful stories passed down to him from Mum and Gran McLarty. From playful fae to bright flora covered hillsides, Nick’s tales were an oasis for the men in the midst of war. With a heavy heart, John found himself on the emerald isle meeting the McLarty family to pay his last respects just five short months after meeting the boy. And when the time came for him to fly back home to London, he found he couldn’t leave.

His first Winter on the island was bleak and lonely. The green he had fallen in love with in a dream was a harsh white reality. Dim and grey and overcast. John stayed to his cabin most days, venturing out at night to look to the stars when the nights were clear enough.

He’d unpacked the typewriter from Harry, a much appreciated Christmas gift that he’d yet to find a practical use for. John would sit, start to type, then frown down at the pages. He’d crumpled and burned up every idea so far. Harry’s card insisted he had stories of his own to tell. ‘Adventures’ she called them. But the longer he started at the blank page, all that came to mind was: _Nothing happens to me._

It wasn’t until the Spring, when the island regained it’s glow, that John found his spirits revived. One morning, he woke to birdsong and sunlight and the entire world seemed to shift back onto its axis. John stretched with a groan, smiling and rolling from bed as if he’d just woken from hibernation. He would even swear his coffee tasted sweeter that day. Sitting on the front porch, flipping through the local paper and watching the forest around him come to life. The last few patches of snow and ice shrinking away from the rising sun.

By lunch time John decided to explore the world calling him beyond the cabin. The world Nick had spoken of so often.

He found the first trail easy enough. Winding through the woods just behind his back porch where the hazel and dog-violet grew in spotty clumps. He walked for a long while until the shadow of the Iron Mountains pulled back to reveal a small lake. Running through his memory, John declared the body of water to be Killoran Lough and circled around the water’s edge until he spied a meadow. To his left, the back face of the mountainside offered shade. To his right an open plain of endless green, spotted with only a handful of the more stubborn ash and birch no amount of grass or wildflower could overgrow. And between them, a beautiful crabapple stood alone, rare in its height.

John stilled, squinting at the centerpiece in suspicion. Its branches were still bare from winter’s snow, but already dotted with the promise of flowering buds come May. It looked.. old. Too old. On cautious toes, he slipped between the shade of tall grass and scattered wood, sneaking up on the ancient wood to get a closer look. He took shallow breaths and moved light of foot. As if his presence would upset the spell and the tree would pull up root to run away.

The clouds shifted and John stopped, hovering just a few meters away. He spotted movement at the base of the large tree. Sunlight filtered down through the branches and he squinted to the shadows there, watching the form of a young man come into view. The man sat in the tall grass, leaning up against the base of the trunk, long fingers dancing about, focused on some menial task in his lap. His skin appeared spotted from the shadows of the tree, John couldn’t be sure. Curious, he moved closer.

Shadows shifted again and John could see the young man clearer. In his hands was a circlet of twigs and leaves into which he wove a selection of bright pink campions with care. Bent forward over his task, a headful of dark ringlets hid the man’s face save for a long neck and defined jaw. Among the curls rested a completed flower crown of daisies and coltsfoot and what looked to be two twigs. Or rather, branches, giving the young man the illusion of antlers. Captivated, John took another step forward.

Suddenly, the flower crown was abandoned as its craftsman looked up. He sniffed the air thrice and turned to face John. His eyes were piercing. Fear and curiosity flying across his features before John realized what he was seeing. A light breeze danced between them, stirring the grass as the young man held his gaze and stood. He was towering, well over six feet tall. At least a head above John’s own height. John held his position, kept his eyes locked until curiosity got the best of him and--

“Oh,” a small gasp escaped as John let his eyes glance down. The man? was covered in fur from the waist down. His legs tapering from strong thighs to frail deer hooves. The spots were not tricks of light, but rather patches of tan and white fur across the young man’s chest and shoulders. Though his hands and face were human, his nose and ears were not. And as John let his eyes drink the vision in, he realized too that the branches were indeed antlers. “I-- I’m sorry to intrude,” he stammered, hands up and bowing awkwardly. He didn’t know what to do. The mystical creature didn’t seem threatened by him, but he didn’t want to be gored for trespassing into someone’s sacred wood either. Slowly, head lowered in submission, John began to back away.

“Dia dhuit,” the deer-man spoke. His voice was deep and lilting and John stopped moving. Eyes cautiously rising. The words were familiar as a local greeting, but thick in accent. His mind was drawing a blank on how to respond.

The deer-man stepped closer, his full height casting John’s cowering form into shadow. He circled the shorter man, sniffing the air around him, nuzzling in close to the back of John’s collar before placing a palm on his shoulder. “Céad míle fáilte romhat,” he said, pointing to his spot by the tree.

John looked up, searching the beautiful eyes peering at him from beneath the mop of dark fringe. The shifting colors he found there would have been enough to convince him of magic. Deerman or no. But it was the kindness and the soft smile on the young man’s face which convinced him to follow. “Th-- thank you,” he managed. His own smile offered as a promise of peace. He followed the young man, allowing himself to be lead back to the tree. John’s eyes went wide in amusement at the little tail that swayed with the deer-man’s movements.

Beneath the tree, John settled beside the pile of discarded flora and branches. He watched the young man settle back into his own spot, still in awe, still smiling. He was beautiful up close. His hair a springy mess of dark curls. Implied softness matched only by the sheen of his fur. His ears were twitching in a nervous manner as the young man chewed his lip, deciding something. John felt compelled to reach out and pet him, calling on every ounce of his willpower to behave.

“Sherlock is ainm dom..” he spoke slowly, pointing to himself. “Sherlock,” he repeated. He reached forward and patted John’s chest, over his heart. “C'ainm atá ort?” his voice rose at the end, a question. John stared down, squinting in thought.

“Sherlock,” he said again, pointing to himself. Then pointing again to John, “C'ainm atá ort?”

“Oh,” John smiled in realization. “John,” he answered, pointing to himself.

The deer boy, Sherlock, smiled back at him. Reaching forward to softly stroke across John’s chest. “John..” he echoed. “John.. John..John,” letting the word roll across his tongue until he had savored every syllable.

John grinned wide, his heart racing. Something about his name in that voice was mesmerizing. Filling him with a pleasant warmth.

Sherlock leaned forward, sifting through the discarded pile of flowers before extracting a completed crown. It was much like his own but dotted with three types of violet, purples and whites. He held it up to John’s cheek, staring deep into his eyes for a long while before tossing the crown aside. Reaching up, Sherlock plucked the ring of coltsfoot and daisies from his own head and settled it atop John’s mess of shaggy blonde hair. He tilted John’s chin up, turned his own head side to side in evaluation. Pleased with his choice, he caressed John’s cheek and smiled. “John,” he said once more.

“Sherlock,” John whispered, reaching up to brush the hand on his cheek.

For a long while, John sat and listened to Sherlock speak as he finished weaving crowns. Choosing the violet mix for himself before hanging the others on a low branch and guiding John to follow him to the lake’s edge. There they spoke a while, each tossing small pebbles and leaves into the water as the sun sank behind them, stretching new shadows across the meadow. Sherlock did not seem to understand English but John had picked up a few snippets of Gaelic and he could understand even if he could not answer. Most of their communication consisted of pointing and repetition.

By nightfall, Sherlock had walked with John back to the forest’s edge. He stopped just inside the safety of of the treeline, looking back towards the meadow and the mountains nervously. John turned and offered his palm in farewell. “Gura míle,” he tried but the language was still odd in his mouth. Sherlock tilted his head, looked down to John’s hand a moment, unsure of himself. He reached forward to take it, “Beidh tú ar ais?” as they clasped hands.

  
“Yes,” John agreed. Nodding eagerly before dropping the handshake to head back home. “I will return.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations for Ch 1:  
> Nollaig Shona Duit - Happy Christmas  
> Dia dhuit - Hello  
> Céad míle fáilte romhat. - A hundred thousand welcomes to you.  
> Sherlock is ainm dom. - My name is Sherlock.  
> C'ainm atá ort? - What is your name?  
> Gura míle - Thanks  
> Beidh tú ar ais? - Will you return?


	2. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Angels and archangels may have gathered there,  
>  cherubim and seraphim thronged the air._

For the next four months, John met with Sherlock each morning.  The days passed and the crabapple bloomed around them. Bursting in pink petals as they sat teaching one another to speak their native tongues. Sherlock was a quick study, picking up English faster than John could teach, but still prefered his own tongue when sharing stories. And he really enjoyed telling stories.

John, for his part, was a great listener. Often lying in the grass, bare feet teasing the blades between his toes as Sherlock danced around him talking, singing, painting a world with his words. John flipping through his little tourist translation book as fast as he could. But most days, he would just bring his notebook, taking notes of new words and places. Sketching illustrations, adjusting the images for accuracy until they met Sherlock’s approval; a giddy frolic around John coupled with high bleating sounds.

“Nick would have liked you,” John said one afternoon as Sherlock finished telling him about the merpeople who returned each Summer, promising to introduce them come June.

“Cé hé?” Sherlock asked, settling beside him to stretch out in a sun warmed patch of grass.

“Nicholas McLarty. He was a friend of mine, back in the..” John searched for a word, looking down and catching sight of his pockmarked arm, “cogadh,” he said. His face fell in shadow, the memory of that day, the explosion that had extinguished a shining star from existence and left John permanently scarred along his entire left side.

“Friend..” Sherlock said, rolling to his side. He took John’s hand in his own and smiled up at him. “John and Sherlock caraid, yes?”

“Yes,” John agreed.

“And Nick will come?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” John answered. He sat up stiffly, turning his left side away from the sunlight. He tugged his hand free to look away. “He is gone..“ his eyes went back to the scars and pulled an Irish phrase from memory he’d heard at the funeral service, “ba choscrach an bás é.”

“John,” Sherlock shifted beside him, his voice soft and coaxing. “Sorry,” he reached out to touch the man again, calling him back from the shadows of his past, carefully inching forward to find his fingers tangled into a fist in the grass. Sherlock let his hand trail up to John’s wrist, tracing constellations between each small scar. John grew nervous under the scrutiny but allowed himself to be shifted back into the sunlight. Tugging them forward, Sherlock lined up both of their arms, pointing between the spots of his fur and those on John’s forearm. “Same,” he said simply. “Is..” Sherlock wrinkled his little black nose and searched for the right word, “pretty.”

John looked up, finding silver-blue eyes smiling at him. It took every ounce of his strength not to crumble and cry, unleashing a year’s worth of bottled up emotion, but he was British and it would take more than a few kind words to crack that wall. Sherlock stood abruptly. He offered a hand down to help John stand. “Come.”

Confused, but happy for distraction, John took the hand and followed. Sherlock leading them back past the lake, closer to the mountain’s base where the shadows and long grass were thickest. Pushing aside a pile of brush, Sherlock revealed a small outcrop in the mountainside. Scattered on the short ledge were a number of flower crowns long since faded to dry brambles and weeds. Behind each was a symbol etched into the stone. “Teaghlach,” Sherlock said.

John’s eyes shot wide, his grip tightening in Sherlock’s palm. “Your family?” he asked. All this time John had assumed the young man was simply protecting the others, keeping them from John until he knew it was safe to introduce him. _Was he really all alone out here?_

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. He let go of John’s hand and scampered off to the water’s edge, returning a moment later with a small stone. John watched as Sherlock bit his lip, looked him over and turned back to the stone wall. Using the stone’s sharp point he began scratching the surface until an image took shape. One long line with two shorter lines parallel. Sherlock stepped back, smiling at his work.

“I’m sorry,” John said. Clearly Sherlock had meant for him to be thankful or proud but he couldn’t be sure. “I don’t--”

“Nicholas,” Sherlock said. He pointed at the marking. “Duir,” he flexed his arm, “strong.”

“Oh,” John said, looking back at the mark more clearly. “Thank you, Sherlock.” He reached out, tracing the grooves of the carving, closed his eyes and placed his palm flat against the cool surface of the stone. Silence passed as John sent up a silent prayer, Sherlock stepping back to give him a moment alone.

When he reopened his eyes, John found he was still alone. He could hear birds chittering overhead. The breeze rustling through the flora behind him. But no sound of Sherlock. He wandered back towards their tree when the small splash of water drifted to his ears.

“Sher--” John stopped and watched. Sherlock was wading through the shallow lake’s edge, sniffing, selecting and pulling up hand fulls of small blue flowers. Once he had a sizeable arm full he returned to John’s side, holding them up for inspection.

“To remember,” he said. Up close John could see the familiar yellow centers in each tiny bloom, giving them away as forget-me-nots. “Come,” Sherlock said and John followed him once more to the mountain’s edge.

There they sat together, Sherlock setting the pile of clippings between them. He plucked a long stemmed bushel of flowers and began weaving. John watching at first until Sherlock handed him the weave and slowly guided John’s fingers to do it himself. After a few frustrating failures, the crown came into form and John held it up with a prideful grin. Looking beside him, he saw that Sherlock had completed one as well. “Two?” John asked.

Sherlock smiled gently and stood. He waited for John to follow suit before speaking. “One here,” he said, pointing to the small ledge behind them. “To stay.” John nodded in understanding and walked past to settle his crown for Nick below his carving. He felt the tightness in his chest again as he turned to thank Sherlock, but the young man had already walked away, back towards the lake. Quickly, John ran after him.

“This one,” Sherlock said as John joined his side, “to let go.” He held up the second crown and handed it to John, then pointed out to the lake. John nodded again, took a step towards the water, then paused to turn back around.

“Sherlock, I..” he swallowed the lump of emotion back down, “tá tú go hiontach.” The smile that took over Sherlock’s face could not be contained. It engulfed his eyes with light, his nose and forehead wrinkling up in delight and even set his ears and tail to twitching. John only hoped he’d pronounced everything correctly.

Turning back to the lake, John knelt down and set the small weave of flowers to float out on the water. A small prayer went out to Nick and he sat back, watching the breeze slowly draw the bundle further away as the sun began to sink in the sky. Sherlock settled in close beside him, a peaceful silence taking over the meadow as evening bloomed around them. McLarty’s flowers drifted across the water until they were a small blue blur on the edge of visibility.

“What..” John sat up, eyes squinting into the darkness across the lake. Waiting for the impossible things he’d just seen to reappear. There are no fireflies in Ireland. John remembered his disappointment learning that little fact from Nicholas. He’d even promised to take the kid out to Wales and catch a whole jarful to sneak back home. But looking out into the darkness, he could swear he saw a fluttering of lights across the water. People would tell him it was a trick of the light or just reflected starlight, but John knew what he saw. _Besides, the very same people say there are no faeries or cervitaurs either so what do they know of magic?_

As far as John chose to believe, they were fireflies. “Thank you,” he whispered softly as Sherlock’s hand found his in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this little fic kinda took on a whole life of its own. 4 chapters now (seasons need symmetry, sorry I don't make the rules) plus it will take a few more days because I got scheduled for work. (boohiss)  
> _____  
> Translations for Chapter 2:  
> Cé hé? - Who's he?  
> cogadh - war  
> caraid- friend  
> ba choscrach an bás é - it was a terrible death (a tragedy)  
> teaghlach - family  
> duir - Ogham letter D, symbol of the oak tree  
> tá tú go hiontach - you are amazing.


End file.
